


The Haunting of Baker Street

by Westron Wynde (Moon_Disc)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 10:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21251924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moon_Disc/pseuds/Westron%20Wynde
Summary: Dr Watson goes to Mrs Hudson's aid when she tells him of a haunting at 221B - from a most unusual ghost. A short story for Hallowe'en.





	The Haunting of Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published 2016.

_"All houses wherein men have lived and died_

_Are haunted houses."_

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

_'Haunted Houses'_ from 'Birds of Passage' (1868)

It was late in the afternoon at the end of October 1893 that I received a note from Mrs Hudson, asking for my assistance. I had not seen my former landlady since the funeral of my late wife, and it had been longer still since I had been to Baker Street. I could number the passage of time in years; come next May, it would be three.

The message sounded urgent. Mrs Hudson was possessed of a sound and practical nature, as far removed as it was possible to be from the minor anxieties and superstitions that trouble mankind. So when I read of 'unnatural goings-on', I was concerned and, despite my reluctance to venture into old territory, after I had seen my last patient, I took myself to Baker Street.

I had been this way before in the last few years, but had managed to find diversions to avoid my former lodgings. I had skirted around it, like a liar with the truth, not trusting myself to catch a glimpse of that well-remembered door or the windows with their swaying net curtains and half-pulled blinds. What once had been home was now akin to the very mouth of Hell, a terrible, gaping maw, filled with torments anew.

Yet, as I stood outside now, I realised that it held no terror for me. There was nothing it could offer that I had not already endured. As Dante's sinners discovered, it made little difference to which circle of Hell one was condemned; they were but different manifestations of the same place.

With that in mind, I rang the bell. A moment later, Mrs Hudson came hurrying out, a black shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her hair was a little greyer, and she seemed to be a little smaller than I remembered, but she still possessed that same formidable spirit that had reined in the worst of Holmes' excesses and brought her upstairs on more than one occasion to remind him that others needed their sleep, even if he did not.

"Oh, Dr Watson," said she, clasping my hand. "I am glad to see you, sir. I've been at my wits' end and no mistake."

"Calm yourself," I said kindly. "Whatever is the matter?"

She glanced from side to side, saw one of her neighbours sweeping her doorstep and beckoned me inside. "You'd best come in," she urged. "I don't want anyone else to know."

Inside, I paused to remove my hat and coat. Nothing had changed. The aspidistra had the same glossy leaves, the floor was gleaming and the air carried that reassuring smell of beeswax that guaranteed all had been given Mrs Hudson's seal of approval. When I observed only her coat and bonnet hanging on the hall stand, it suddenly occurred to me that I did not know who had taken the rooms upstairs. I had the strange sensation of being an interloper in a place that had once been so familiar. It was an unsettling feeling.

I followed Mrs Hudson into the kitchen where a kettle was whistling on the stove and an empty cup sat on the time-worn surface of the table. I knew she was out of sorts when she took her seat without offering me of tea. She appeared tired and wan, and I saw that whatever was worrying her was eating away at her like hungry moths in a linen cupboard.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Dr Watson," said she, "but something's been happening here and I don't know what to do about it. I shouldn't have bothered you, but I didn't know who else to turn to. You'll think I'm a silly old woman–"

"Never," I said, reassuringly. "What is the problem?"

She dropped her eyes and began twisting a handkerchief between her fingers. "Ghosts."

I stared at her. "Forgive me, Mrs Hudson, ghosts?"

"One in particular." She reached across and grabbed my arm. "Oh, Dr Watson, it's Mr Holmes, I'm sure of it. I hear him upstairs when it gets dark, walking about. I hear the springs of his bed creak and sometimes there's the sound of voices. I go up to investigate, but there is never anybody there."

She paused and looked stricken.

"And the tap upstairs, Dr Watson, sometimes when I go to bed, it is dripping and there's water in the sink. Oh, sir, I know you'll say I'm foolish, but Mr Holmes, well, he died in water, didn't he? Maybe he's trying to tell us something."

I confess that my blood ran cold when I heard her words. Not because I gave any credence to the notion that Holmes had returned in spectral form, but because it had been a long time since anyone had spoken to me of the nature of his death. 'Died in water' was a poor epitaph for a man who had given his life to rid the world of a ruthless criminal, and poorer still for a friend.

"Are you sure that the tap isn't loose, Mrs Hudson?" I asked her. "I seem to remember we had problems with it dripping before."

"So we did, sir. It was never right after Mr Holmes tried to fix it. Mr Jackson, the plumber, said he'd never seen anything like it." Her eyes widened. "Perhaps that's what he's trying to tell me, Doctor, that I need to get Mr Jackson back."

I smiled at the thought that Holmes would ever, in this life or the next, concern himself with anything as trivial as domestic plumbing.

"Have you mentioned this to your tenants?" I asked.

She seemed taken aback. "My tenants?" she said uncertainly. "Bless you, Dr Watson, how could you have known? It's only me here now. Mr Mycroft Holmes took over the tenancy. The room is exactly as his brother left it." She sobered a little. "I dust and open the windows now and then to keep the air fresh, but it's not the same. It always feels cold up there. They say that spirits can do that."

"Perhaps you should light a fire in the grate occasionally to keep the damp away."

She managed an unconvincing smile.

"Holmes' brother took on the rent, you say," I continued. "Did he say why?"

"Truth be told, I didn't like to ask him, Doctor. Grief takes us all in different ways."

"Indeed. Strange though, I never took Mycroft Holmes to be a sentimentalist."

"Oh, he was quite affected when he came here. Said everything had to be left exactly as his brother left it. Well, I had to tidy up after the fire we had just before Mr Holmes went away, but everything is just the same." Her eyes wandered to the ceiling and the rooms above. "Ever since I've started hearing the noises, I haven't liked to go up there on my own. I had to let the maid go; there wasn't enough work for the girl. Added to which, she thought it was eerie keeping Mr Holmes' rooms like that. I know what she means now."

"I sympathise, Mrs Hudson, but I don't see what you think I can do about it."

"I hoped," she began tentatively, "that you might go and speak to Mr Holmes. He always liked you, Dr Watson, perhaps you can reason with him."

I fancy myself possessed of a variety of skills, but reasoning with Holmes had never been chief among them. He had had his own ideas and invariably followed them. If he was haunting Baker Street, which I did not believe for a moment, given his own thoughts on the nature of the afterlife, then I feared Mrs Hudson's faith in my powers of persuasion were misplaced.

Then, on cue, there came the creak of boards above our heads. There followed a series of dull thuds, as though something had fallen, and the metallic groan of straining bedsprings.

"He's up there now," said Mrs Hudson. "Please, Dr Watson, will you try? He'll listen to you, I know he will. I don't mind him being up there, poor soul, but I'd rather he was quiet about it. Over the last few months, he's been getting noisier and noisier."

"Why have you sent for me now?"

"Because it's All Hallows' Eve, or Snap-Apple Night, as my grandmother used to call it. The dead are abroad. I worry about him, all alone up there. He needs peace. Heavens knows none of us had any when he was alive."

I had only been half-listening to her concerns. I had been listening to the soft patter of feet and the gurgle of water rushing down pipes.

"Leave it to me, Mrs Hudson," I said, rising to my feet. "I'll lay this ghost for you."

"Oh, be kind to him, Dr Watson. I'm sure he means no harm."

I advanced up the stairs. Unlike Mrs Hudson, I had no fear of the dead and certainly none of the entity roaming the upstairs rooms. The few, hushed noises stopped when I reached the landing. As I had expected, I opened the door to our former sitting room to find it empty.

I took my time lighting the gas lamps. The air was stale, despite Mrs Hudson's efforts, and the atmosphere somewhat oppressive. It was as though the room was holding its breath, waiting for its former occupant to come striding in as in days before. Or perhaps I was imagining that too. Perhaps I was the one who was waiting.

My surroundings did not help. The world outside had moved on, with its endless round of petty crime, felonies and murders. Here, inside this suffocating room, it was as though time had stood still. Except in one particular detail. A cap was lying on the floor where it had fallen from the armchair. I picked it up and examined it, confirming my suspicions. Then I strode into Holmes' bedroom.

"You can come out now," I said out loud. "I know you're in here."

Nothing happened. I tried again.

"Better that you show yourselves and save me the trouble of finding you."

I heard a shuffling sound and from behind the bed emerged a youth of perhaps fifteen years though in looks somewhat older, prematurely aged as he was by a life of deprivation and hardship. Behind him followed a young girl of 7 or 8 years old, clad in a tattered grey nightshirt. Both appeared scared at being discovered, none more so than the girl, who hid behind the elder boy, concealing all but a few wisps of her golden hair.

I stared at the youth. Something seemed familiar. "Wiggins, is that you?" I asked.

He was taller and rangier, and the curls of boyhood had been smoothed away. The face, thinner than I remembered, suddenly creased into a smile and I saw the boy once more.

"Evening, Dr Watson," said he.

"Wiggins, what are you doing here? And who is your friend?"

He glanced behind him. "My sister, Betty. As for us, we came up the drainpipe and in through the window."

"You've been doing this for some months, I take it."

He nodded. "We meant no disrespect, sir. We needed a place to sleep. I'd seen no lights on up here at night, so I thought the place was empty, what with Mr Holmes not needing his rooms any more. I forced the window one night, and me and Betty have been coming here ever since."

"Why?" I asked. "Don't you have a home?"

"Not since our mother died in the summer of an infected dog bite. My dad left a long time ago, so after our Ma was gone, it was just us two. Our Ma made me promise I'd take care of Betty, like I've always done."

"I'm not sure that this is what she had in mind, Wiggins."

He squared his shoulders. "I'll not leave her, Dr Watson. I'll not have her go in the workhouse or no orphanage either. She stays with me."

At that moment, Mrs Hudson called up the stairs, suddenly alerted by the sounds of voices that her alleged ghost was actually a creature of flesh and blood. I asked her to join us, and, after her surprise and consternation had passed, Wiggins continued with his story.

"I've managed to get work with an undertaker. It don't pay much, but it's regular work. People are always dying, you see. I was hoping to get me and Betty a room, only there's none that would take us, what with Betty being so young. So I've been taking her with me. We leave here at dawn and go to Covent Garden. Betty gathers up the flowers that the sellers discard and she sells them for a penny a time in Threadneedle Street."

"That's no life for a young child," said Mrs Hudson reprovingly. "And not safe for her either."

"I know. I worry about her all day. I don't know what else to do with her. If our old Ma could see me now, she'd tan my hide and no mistake." Wiggins hung his head. "I'm sorry if we scared you, missus. We didn't touch nothing or take nothing. We tried to be as quiet as we could so you wouldn't know we was here."

"It's hard to deceive Mrs Hudson," I said with a smile. "I should know. Mr Holmes tried it often enough and failed."

Wiggins' eyes opened wide. "Did he, sir? Will you be writing about it in one of your stories?"

"Possibly. But first, we have to decide what to do about you."

"They can stay here for the time being," said Mrs Hudson decisively. "The girl can have your old room, Doctor, and I'll make up a bed for young Mr Wiggins on the sofa. I daresay a good meal wouldn't go amiss either."

She took the little girl's hand. Betty stared at her, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and expectation.

"I've got fresh bread downstairs," said Mrs Hudson. "How would that sound with butter and jam?"

Betty nodded eagerly. Mrs Hudson turned her attention to the girl's brother.

"I have a friend who's been looking for a lodger. It seems to me, young man, that you might be suitable. She has children of her own, so she could keep watch on this little one. She goes to school, I take it?"

"Not lately."

"Then it's high time that she did. That would keep her out of mischief while you were working."

"I'd be obliged if you would put in a good word for us, missus," said Wiggins.

"That's Mrs Hudson to you," said she firmly. "Now, take your sister and the both of you wash your hands and faces. Cleanliness is next to godliness, remember that. Then you can join me downstairs for supper."

Wiggins' smile told of his gratitude as he took his sister by the hand and led her up the stairs. Mrs Hudson appeared pleased with herself.

"I have to thank you, Dr Watson. I feel quite foolish now. How did you know?"

"Ah, well, I don't believe in ghosts, Mrs Hudson."

And yet they were all around me. Standing in my old rooms, I was lost in the past, smelling Holmes' particular mix of tobacco, and hearing the rustle of papers as he swept through, coupled with the sound of his strident tones and ominous laughter. In one corner was the chair where Mr Jabez Wilson had sat to tell us his extraordinary tale; in the other, one once occupied by Miss Violet Hunter. Here too was my dear Mary, in her prim beige dress, seated on the sofa to tell us of her mysterious benefactor, and over by the fire, Holmes lounging in his dressing gown with his eyes bent upon the dancing flames.

No dragging chains, no pointing fingers of recrimination – the ghosts that dwelt in this place were of a different nature. They had been there all the time, waiting for me. And I was glad to see them.

"Will you join us, Doctor?" asked Mrs Hudson tentatively. "I'm sure I could find enough to go round."

"Yes, Mrs Hudson, that would be most welcome." I smiled. "I've been away too long."

**The End**


End file.
